You might think that you are immune to the power of advertising, to the pull of the human trait of desire for the sound of the Siren which urges you into the minefield of exploration, of searching for tantalising glimpse of a passion you have never experienced before; you might think you are beyond such base thought but reason means nothing when you hear the music of Ghalia & Mama’s Boys for the first time.
If the words do not exist then at some point they need to be invented, till then the soundtrack to which the maestro performs will always capture the imagination if given the chance to breathe.
It is in the instrumental dance that the words flow, regardless of whether the piece has them in mind or not, for what comes is natural, the voice of electronic or the acoustic will come forth, introduce itself and then finally speak. It is a sentence and a half that spills out of the otherwise silent mouth, that brings forth the answers to the question on just how good a theme can be, especially when it is new, innovative and yet reassuringly and comfortably familiar.
The bar has been placed so high by Albert Castiglia that there is surely little room to wriggle through the space that is left, and when the bar refuses point blank to give way, to be seen as conceding even an inch in today resurgence of the well performed Blues, the only thing you can do is take a sledgehammer to it and rebuild or show it just who is in command with the biggest confident strut and musical stride and make the bar realise it hasn’t seen anything yet.
Those alone periods, the times in which to read whatever takes our fancy without someone looking at us with suspicion, with the glare of accusation that somehow you are wasting time just by making sure your brain is doing what it is supposed to, appreciating art in any form and not being told by a supposed authority that by doing so you are not being productive.
They say New York City never sleeps, that it must be suffering from a kind of metropolis induced insomnia, the bright lights of Broadway constantly ablaze with show information, Time Square pumping out electricity, eye catching news and the simple off 77th Street and 3rd Avenue bar which stays open all night, all the collected lights and glow of the neighbourhood, and yet it can still be to the lonely, the thoughtful and the heartbroken, a place where songs are written about the Big Dark City.
It only seems like yesterday, such a short time ago, that the fashion to take the popular songs of the artist and scale them back from the more rock/pop dominated sound, then giving them a different history all together was almost everywhere, it sidled into the conscious and left its mark. The only issue being when something is fashionable it can leave the feeling of too much, everybody trying the same relentless thing. It perhaps came too much, too identical, the uniform of consistency the audience didn’t even know they needed and when they figured it out, it was too late; like ivy creeping up a wall, it was soon everywhere.
There is no such thing as the sane approach when dealing with the subjects of Anarchy And Love, sometimes you just have ride it out and see where the action takes you, or if you are fortunate you get to join in willingly, hold your head high and smile as the beauty inside both rages.
Both feelings state their case of destruction, both suggest that to follow the noise and conflagration of others is going to end with more than a few stories to tell; to lose your head and your heart at least once in life is to show that you have lived.
It takes an artist to paint a picture in which the local chippy is given prominence, a sense of the Lowry inhabiting a mind which grasps, understands and exemplifies the uniqueness of the human mind to make the ordinary explode with colour and reason and make what we see just astonishing, the passion of the painter’s eye capturing a detail that many would gloss over or not see at all.
There is a special place reserved for the soul of David Crosby, for the gentleness he portrays in his music, for the sense of persuasive mellow he captures as the songs ring out with tender heart and peace, that special place just seems to become more appreciative, more becoming, and as the Sky Trails, as the words become ethereal and powerfully cool, so the more music fans have an elder statesman in which to look for guidance.
Epics come and epics go, some will stand the test of time and others fall into the trap of becoming side-lined, browning with age, bleached in part by the weather streaming against the frames and forgotten, a dusty reminder of what they once stood for in the pantheon of music.